Full oft, where Solitude and Silence dwell,
Far, far remote amid the lowly plain,
Resounds the voice of Woe from Virtue's cell.
Such is man's doom, and Pity weeps in vain.
Still grief recoils—How vainly have I strove
Thy power, O Melancholy, to withstand!
Tir'd I submit; but yet, O yet remove,
Or ease the pressure of thy heavy hand!
Yet for awhile let the bewilder'd soul
Find in society relief from woe;
O yield awhile to Friendship's soft control;
Some, respite, Friendship, wilt thou not bestow!
Come, then, Philander, whose exalted mind
Looks down from far on all that charms the great;
For thou canst bear, unshaken and resign'd,
The brightest smiles, the blackest frowns of Fate:
Come thou, whose love unlimited, sincere,
Nor faction cools, nor injury destroys;
Who lend'st to Misery's moan a pitying ear,
And feel'st with ecstasy another's joys:
Who know'st man's frailty; with a favouring eye,
And melting heart, behold'st a brother's fall;
Who, unenslav'd by Fashion's narrow tie,
With manly freedom follow'st Nature's call.
And bring thy Delia, sweetly-smiling fair,
Whose spotless soul no rankling thoughts deform;
Her gentle accents calm each throbbing care,
And harmonize the thunder of the storm:
Though blest with wisdom, and with wit refin'd,
She courts no homage, nor desires to shine;
In her each sentiment sublime is join'd
To female softness, and a form divine.
Come, and disperse th' involving shadows drear;
Let chasten'd mirth the social hours employ;
O catch the swift-wing'd moment while 'tis near,
On swiftest wing the moment flies of joy.
Even while the careless disencumber'd soul
Sinks all dissolving into pleasure's dream,
Even then to time's tremendous verge we roll
With headlong haste along life's surgy stream.